BOOKS 

KS3  ANDSSB 

BOOK 

LOVERS 


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BOOKS 

AND 

BOOK  LOVERS 

CHOSEN  BY 

Ralph  A.  Lyon 


EVANSTON 

William  S.  Lord 
1901 


“I  thank  God  continually  that  it  hath 
* been  my  lot  in  life  to  found  an  empire 
in  my  heart — no  cramped  and  wizened 
borough  wherein  one  jealous  mistress  hath 
exercised  her  petty  tyranny,  but  an  ex- 
pansive and  ever-widening  continent  di- 
vided and  subdivided  into  dominions,  ju- 
risdictions, caliphates,  chiefdoms,  seneschal- 
ships,  and  prefectures,  wherein  tetrarchs, 
burgraves,  maharajahs,  palatines,  seigniors, 
caziques,  nabobs,  emirs,  nizams,  and  na- 
wabs  hold  sway,  each  over  his  special  and 
particular  realm,  and  all  bound  together 
in  harmonious  co-operation  by  the  con- 
ciliating spirit  of  polybibliophily  ! ” 
Eugene  Field. 

[ The  Love  Affairs  of  a Bibliomaniac .] 


4 


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| Books  and  Book  Lovers  | 

«ftj^ywwinsw^R«WftwinnnnniTOnw 

THE  BIBLIOMANIAC* 

HOW  easily  one  may  distinguish  a genu- 
ine lover  of  books  from  a worldly 
man  ! With  what  subdued  and  yet  glowing 
enthusiasm  does  he  gaze  upon  the  costly 
front-  of  a thousand  embattled  volumes  ! 
How  gently  he  draws  them  down,  as  if  they 
were  little  children;  how  tenderly  he  hand- 
les them  ! He  peers  at  the  title-page,  at 
the  text,  or  the  notes,  with  the  nicety  of  a 
bird  examining  a flower.  He  studies  the 
binding  : the  leather,  russia,  English  calf, 
morocco;  the  lettering,  the  gilding,  the 


*From  “Star  Papers,”  by  Henry  Ward  Beecher. 


edging,  the  hinge  of  the  cover!  He  opens 
it  and  shuts  it;  he  holds  it  off  and  brings  it 
nigh.  It  suffuses  his  whole  body  with 
book  magnetism.  He  walks  up  and  down 
in  a maze  at  the  mysterious  allotments  of 
Providence,  that  gives  so  much  money  to 
men  who  spend  it  upon  their  appetites,  and 
so  little  to  men  who  would  spend  it  in 
benevolence  or  upon  their  refined  tastes  ! 
It  is  astonishing,  too,  how  one’s  necessi- 
ties multiply  in  the  presence  of  the  supply. 
One  never  knows  how  many  things  it  is 
impossible  to  do  without  till  he  goes  to 
Windle’s  or  Smith’s  house-furnishing 
stores.  One  is  surprised  to  perceive,  at 
some  bazaar  or  fancy  and  variety  store,  how 
many  conveniences  he  needs.  Pie  is  satis- 
fied that  his  life  must  have  been  utterly 
inconvenient  aforetime.  And  thus,  too, 
one  is  inwardly  convicted,  at  Appletons’, 
of  having  lived  for  years  without  books 


6 


which  he  is  now  satisfied  that  one  cannot 
live  without! 

Then,  too,  the  subtle  process  by  which 
the  man  convinces  himself  that  he  can 
afford  to  buy.  No  subtle  manager  or 
broker  ever  saw  through  a maze  of  finan- 
cial embarrassments  half  so  quick  as  a poor 
book-buyer  sees  his  way  clear  to  pay  for 
what  he  must  have.  He  promises  himself 
marvels  of  retrenchment;  he  will  eat  less, 
or  less  costly  viands,  that  he  may  buy  more 
food  for  the  mind.  He  will  take  an  extra 
patch,  and  go  on  with  his  rainment  another 
year,  and  buy  books  instead  of  coats.  Yea, 
he  will  write  books,  that  he  may  buy  books'! 
The  appetite  is  insatiable.  Feeding  does 
not  satisfy  it.  It  rages  by  the  fuel  which 
is  put  upon  it.  As  a hungry  man  eats 
first  and  pays  afterward,  so  the  book-buyer 
purchases  and  then  works  at  the  debt  after- 
ward. This  paying  is  rather  medicinal.  It 


7 


cures  for  a time.  But  a relapse  takes  place. 
The  same  longing,  the  same  promises  of 
self-denial.  He  promises  himself  to  put 
spurs  on  both  heels  of  his  industry;  and 
then,  besides  all  this,  he  will  somehow  get 
along  when  the  time  for  payment  comes! 
Ah!  this  somehow!  That  word  is  as  big 
as  a whole  world,  and  is  stuffed  with  all 
the  vagaries  and  fantasies  that  Fancy  ever 
bred  upon  Hope.  And  yet,  is  there  not 
some  comfort  in  buying  books,  to  he  paid 
for?  We  have  heard  of  a sot  who  wished 
his  neck  as  long  as  the  worm  of  a still, 
that  he  might  so  much  the  longer  enjoy 
the  flavor  of  the  draught!  Thus,  it  is  a 
prolonged  excitement  of  purchase,  if  you 
feel  for  six  months  in  a slight  doubt 
whether  the  book  is  honestly  your  own  or 
not.  Had  you  paid  down,  that  would  have 
been  the  end  of  it.  There  would  have 
been  no  affectionate  and  beseeching  look 


8 


of  your  books  at  you,  every  time  you  saw 
them,  saying,  as  plain  as  a book’s  eyes  can 
say,  “ Do  not  let  me  be  taken  from  you.” 

Moreover,  buying  books  before  you 
can  pay  for  them  promotes  caution.  You 
do  not  feel  quite  at  liberty  to  take  them 
home.  You  are  married.  Your  wife  keeps  an 
account-book.  She  knows  to  a penny  what 
you  can  and  what  you  cannot  afford.  She 
has  no  “ speculation  ” in  her  eyes.  Plain 
figures  make  desperate  work  with  airy 
“ somehow s.”  It  is  a matter  of  no  small 
skill  and  experience  to  get  your  books 
home,  and  into  their  proper  places,  undis- 
covered. Perhaps  the  blundering  express 
brings  them  to  the  door  just  at  evening. 
“What  is  it,  my  dear  ?”  she  says  to  you. 
“ Oh ! nothing — a few  books  that  I cannot 
do  without.”  That  smile  ! A true  house- 
wife that  loves  her  husband  can  smile  a 
whole  arithmetic  at  him  in  one  look  ! Of 


course  she  insists,  in  the  kindest  way,  in 
sympathizing  with  you  in  your  literary  ac- 
quisition. She  cuts  the  strings  of  the  bun- 
dle (and  of  your  heart),  and  out  comes  the 
whole  story.  You  have  bought  a com- 
plete set  of  costly  English  books,  full 
bound  in  calf,  extra  gilt ! You  are  caught, 
and  feel  very  much  as  if  bound  in  calf 
yourself,  and  admirably  lettered. 

Now,  this  must  not  happen  frequently. 
The  books  must  be  smuggled  home.  Let 
them  be  sent  to  some  near  place.  Then, 
when  your  wife  has  a headache,  or  is  out 
making  a call,  or  has  lain  down,  run  the 
books  across  the  frontier  and  threshold, 
hastily  undo  them,  stop  only  for  one  lov- 
ing glance  as  you  put  them  away  in  the 
closet,  or  behind  other  books  on  the  shelf, 
or  on  the  topmost  shelf.  Clear  away  the 
twine  and  wrapping-paper,  and  every  sus- 
picious circumstance.  Be  very  careful  not 


IO 


to  be  too  kind.  That  often  brings  on  de- 
tection. Only  the  other  day  we  heard  it 
said,  somewhere,  “ Why,  how  good  you 
have  been  lately.  I am  really  afraid  you 
have  been  carrying  on  mischief  secretly.” 
Our  heart  smote  us.  It  was  a fact.  That 
very  day  we  had  bought  a few  books 
which  “we  could  not  do  without.”  After 
a while  you  can  bring  out  one  volume,  ac- 
cidently, and  leave  it  on  the  table.  “Why, 
my  dear,  ivhat  a beautiful  book  ! Where 
did  you  borrow  it?”  You  can  glance  over 
the  newspaper,  with  the  quietest  tone  you 
can  command:  “That!  oh  that  is  mine. 
Have  you  not  seen  it  before  ? It  has 
been  in  the  house  these  two  months;” 
and  you  rush  on  with  anecdote  and  inci- 
dent, and  point  out  the  binding,  and  that 
peculiar  trick  of  gilding,  and  everything 
else  you  can  think  of ; but  it  all  will  not 
do;  you  cannot  rub  out  that  roguish  arith- 


ii 


metical  smile.  People  may  talk  about  the 
equality  of  the  sexes ! They  are  not 
equal.  The  silent  smile  of  a sensible, 
loving  woman  will  vanquish  ten  men. 
Of  course  you  repent,  and  in  time  form  a 
habit  of  repenting. 

Another  method  which  will  be  found 
peculiarly  effective  is  to  make  a present  of 
some  fine  work  to  your  wife.  Of  course, 
whether  she  or  you  have  the  name  of  buy- 
ing it,  it  will  go  into  your  collection,  and 
be  yours  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  But 
it  stops  remark  in  the  presentation.  A 
wife  could  not  reprove  you  for  so  kindly 
thinking  of  her.  No  matter  what  she  sus- 
pects, she  will  say  nothing.  And  then  if 
there  are  three  or  four  more  works  which 
have  come  home  with  the  gift-book — 
they  will  pass  through  the  favor  of  the 
other. 

These  are  pleasures  denied  to  wealth 


12 


and  old  bachelors.  Indeed,  one  cannot 
imagine  the  peculiar  pleasure  of  buying 
books  if  one  is  rich  and  stupid.  There 
must  be  some  pleasure,  or  so  many  would 
not  do  it.  But  the  full  flavor,  the  whole 
relish  of  delight  only  comes  to  those  who 
are  so  poor  that  they  must  engineer  for 
every  book.  They  sit  down  before  them, 
and  besiege  them.  They  are  captured. 
Each  book  has  a secret  history  of  ways 
and  means.  It  reminds  you  of  subtle  de- 
vices by  which  you  insured  and  made  it 
yours,  in  spite  of  poverty  ! 

May  25,  1854. 


13 


NON  LIBRI  SED  LIBERI  * 


T T will  never  be  clear  to  the  lay  mind  why 
* the  book-buyer  buys  books.  That  it  is 
not  to  read  them  is  certain : the  closest  in- 
spection always  fails  to  find  him  thus  en- 
gaged. He  will  talk  about  them  — all 
night  if  you  let  him — wave  his  hand  to 
them,  shake  his  fist  at  them,  shed  tears 
over  them  ( in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning);  but  he  will  not  read  them.  Yet 
it  would  be  rash  to  infer  that  he  buys 
his  books  without  a remote  intention  of 
ever  reading  them.  Most  book-lovers 
start  with  the  honest  resolution  that  some 
day  they  will  ‘shut  down  on’  this  fatal 
practice.  Then  they  purpose  to  them- 

*From  “Pagan  Papers,”  by  Kenneth  Grahame.  Copyright, 
14  John  Lane,  New  York. 


selves  to  enter  into  their  charmed  circle, 
and  close  the  gates  of  Paradise  behind 
them.  Then  will  they  read  out  of  nothing 
but  first  editions;  every  day  shall  be  a de- 
bauch in  large  paper  and  tall  copies ; and 
crushed  morocco  shall  be  familiar  to  their 
touch  as  buckram.  Meanwhile,  though, 
books  continue  to  flaunt  their  venal 
charms  ; it  would  be  cowardice  to  shun  the 
fray.  In  fine,  one  buys  and  continues  to 
buy ; and  the  promised  Sabbath  never 
comes. 

The  process  of  the  purchase  is  always 
much  the  same,  therein  resembling  the 
familiar  but  inferior  passion  of  love. 
There  is  the  first  sight  of  the  Object,  ac- 
companied of  a catching  of  the  breath,  a 
trembling  in  the  limbs,  loss  of  appetite; 
ungovernable  desire,  and  a habit  of  melan- 
choly in  secret  places.  But  once  possessed, 
once  toyed  with  amorously  for  an  hour  or 


15 


two,  the  Object  (as  in  the  inferior  passion 
aforesaid)  takes  its  destined  place  on  the 
shelf — where  it  stays.  And  this,  saith  the 
scoffer,  is  all ; but  even  he  does  not  fail  to 
remark  with  a certain  awe  that  the  owner 
goeth  thereafter  as  one  possessing  a happy 
secret  and  radiating  an  inner  glow.  More- 
over, he  is  insufferably  conceited,  and  his 
conceit  waxeth  as  his  coat,  now  condemned 
to  a fresh  term  of  servitude,  groweth 
shabbier.  And  shabby  though  his  coat 
may  be,  yet  will  he  never  stoop  to  renew 
its  pristine  youth  and  gloss  by  the  price 
of  any  book.  No  man — no  human,  mas- 
culine, natural  man — ever  sells  a book. 
Men  have  been  known  in  moments  of 
thoughtlessness,  or  compelled  by  tempor- 
ary necessity,  to  rob,  to  equivocate,  to  do 
murder,  to  adventure  themselves  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  fire-escapes ; these 
things,  howbeit  regretable,  are  common  to 


humanity,  and  may  happen  to  any  of  us. 
But  amateur  bookselling  is  foul  and  un- 
natural ; and  it  is  noteworthy  that  our 
language,  so  capable  of  particularity,  con- 
tains no  distinctive  name  for  the  crime. 
Fortunately  it  is  hardly  known  to  exist. 
The  face  of  the  public  being  set  against  it 
as  a flint  — and  the  trade  giving  such 
wretched  prices. 

In  book-buying  you  not  infrequently 
condone  an  extravagance  by  the  reflection 
that  this  particular  purchase  will  be  a good 
investment,  sordidly  considered  : that  you 
are  not  squandering  income  but  sinking 
capital.  But  you  know  all  the  time  that 
you  are  lying.  Once  possessed,  books 
develop  a personality : they  take  on  a 
touch  of  warm  human  life  that  links  them 
in  a manner  with  our  kith  and  kin.  Non 
Angli  sed  Angeli  was  the  comment  of  a 
missionary  (old  style)  on  the  small  human 


17 


duodecimos  exposed  for  sale  in  the  Roman 
market-place  ; and  many  a buyer,  when 
some  fair-haired  little  chattel  passed  into 
his  possession,  must  have  felt  that  here 
was  something  vendible  no  more.  So  of 
these  you  may  well  affirm  Non  libri  sed 
liberi;  children  now,  adopted  into  the  cir- 
cle, they  shall  be  trafficked  in  never  again. 

There  is  one  exception  which  has  sadly 
to  be  made — one  class  of  men,  of  whom  I 
would  fain,  if  possible,  have  avoided  men- 
tion, who  are  strangers  to  any  such 
scruples.  These  be  Executors — a word 
to  be  strongly  accented  on  the  penulti- 
mate ; for  indeed,  they  are  the  common 
headsmen  of  collections,  and  most  of  all  do 
whet  their  bloody  edge  for  harmless  books. 
Hoary,  famous  old  collections,  budding 
young  collections,  fair  virgin  collections  of 
a single  author — all  go  down  before  the 
executor’s  remorseless  axe.  He  careth  not 


and  he  spareth  not.  ‘The  iniquity  of  ob- 
livion blindly  scattereth  her  poppy,’  and  it 
is  chiefly  by  the  hand  of  the  executor  that 
she  doth  love  to  scatter  it.  May  oblivion 
be  his  portion  for  ever ! 

Of  a truth,  the  foes  of  the  book-lover 
are  not  few.  One  of  the  most  insidious, 
because  he  cometh  at  first  in  friendly,  help- 
ful guise,  is  the  book-binder.  Not  in  that 
he  bindeth  books — for  the  fair  binding  is 
the  final  crown  and  flower  of  painful 
achievement — but  because  he  bindeth 
not : because  the  weary  weeks  lapse  by  and 
turn  to  months,  and  the  months  to  years, 
and  still  the  binder  bindeth  not : and  the 
heart  grows  sick  with  hope  deferred. 
Each  morn  the  maiden  binds  her  hair, 
each  spring  the  honeysuckle  binds  the 
cottage-porch,  each  autumn  the  harvester 
binds  his  sheaves,  each  winter  the  iron 
frost  binds  lake  and  stream,  and  still  the 


•9 


bookbinder  he  bindeth  not.  Then  a secret 
voice  whispereth : ‘Arise,  be  a man,  and 
slay  him !’  Take  him  grossly,  full  of 
bread,  with  all  his  crimes  broad-blown,  as 
flush  as  May;  At  gaming,  swearing,  or 
about  some  act  That  hath  no  relish  of  sal- 
vation in  it ! ’ But  when  the  deed  is  done, 
and  the  floor  strewn  with  fragments  of  bin- 
der— still  the  books  remain  unbound. 
You  have  made  all  that  horrid  mess  for 
nothing,  and  the  weary  path  has  to  be 
trodden  over  again.  As  a general  rule, 
the  man  in  the  habit  of  murdering  book- 
binders though  he  performs  a distinct  ser- 
vice to  society,  only  wastes  his  own  time 
and  takes  no  personal  advantage. 

And  even  supposing  that  after  many 
days  your  books  return  to  you  in  leathern 
surcoats  bravely  tricked  with  gold,  you 
have  scarce  yet  weathered  the  Cape  and 
sailed  into  halcyon  seas.  For  these  books 


20 


— well,  you  kept  them  many  weeks  be- 
fore binding  them,  that  the  oleaginous 
printer’s-ink  might  fully  dry  before  the 
necessary  hammering;  you  forbore  to  open 
the  pages,  that  the  autocratic  binder  might 
refold  the  sheets  if  he  pleased;  and  now  that 
all  is  over  — consummaturn  est  — still  you 
cannot  properly  enjoy  the  harvest  of  a 
quiet  mind.  For  these  purple  emperors 
are  not  to  be  read  in  bed,  nor  during 
meals,  nor  on  the  grass  with  a pipe  on 
Sundays ; and  these  brief  periods  are  all 
the  whirling  times  allow  you  for  sordid 
serious  reading.  Still,  after  all,  you  have 
them ; you  can  at  least  pulverize  your 
friends  with  the  sight ; and  what  have 
they  to  show  against  them : Probably 
some  miserable  score  or  so  of  half- 
bindings , such  as  lead  you  scornfully 
to  quote  the  hackneyed  couplet  concern- 
ing the  poor  Indian  whose  untutored  mind 


21 


clothes  him  before  but  leaves  him  bare  be- 
hind. Let  us  thank  the  gods  that  such 
things  are : that  to  some  of  us  they  give 
not  poverty  nor  riches  but  a few  good 
books  in  whole  bindings.  Dowered  with 
these  and  (if  it  be  vouchsafed)  a cup  of 
Burgundy  that  is  sound  even  if  it  be  not 
old,  we  can  leave  to  others  the  foaming 
grape  of  Eastern  France  that  was  vintaged 
in  ’74,  and  with  it  the  whole  range  of  shill- 
ing shockers, — the  Barmecidal  feast  of  the 
American  novelist  — yea,  even  the  count- 
less series  that  tell  of  Eminent  Women 
and  Successful  Men. 


22 


CHEAP  KNOWLEDGE  * 


HEN  at  times  it  happens  to  me  that 


’ » I ’gin  to  be  aweary  of  the  sun,  and 
to  find  the  fair  apple  of  life  dust  and  ashes 
at  the  core — just  because,  perhaps,  I can’t 
afford  Melampus  Brown’s  last  volume  of 
poems  in  large  paper,  but  must  perforce 
condescend  upon  the  two-and-sixpenny 
edition  for  the  million — then  I bring  myself 
to  a right  temper  by  recalling  to  memory 
a sight  which  now  and  again  in  old  days 
would  touch  the  heart  of  me  to  a happier 
pulsation.  In  the  long,  dark  winter  eve- 
nings, outside  some  shop  window  whose 
gaslights  flared  brightest  into  the  chilly 
street,  I would  see  some  lad — sometimes 

*From  “Pagan  Papers,”  by  Kenneth  Graharae.  Copyright, 
John  Lane,  New  York. 


23 


even  a girl — book  in  hand,  heedless  of 
cold  and  wet,  of  aching  limbs  and  straining 
eyes,  careless  of  jostling  passers-by,  of 
rattle  and  turmoil  behind  them  and  about, 
their  happy  spirits  far  in  an  enchanted 
world  : till  the  ruthless  shopman  turned 
out  the  gas  and  brought  them  rudely  back 
to  the  bitter  reality  of  cramped  legs  and 
numbed  fingers.  cMy  brother  ! ’ or  ‘ My 
sister ! ’ I would  cry  inwardly,  feeling  the 
link  that  bound  us  together.  They  pos- 
sessed, for  the  hour,  the  two  gifts  most 
precious  to  the  student — light  and  solitude: 
the  true  solitude  of  the  roaring  street. 

Somehow  this  vision  rarely  greets  me 
now.  Probably  the  Free  Libraries  have 
supplanted  the  flickering  shop-lights ; and 
every  lad  and  lass  can  enter  and  call  for 
Miss  Braddon  and  batten  thereon  ‘ in  lux- 
ury’s sofa-lap  of  leather ; ’ and  of  course 
this  boon  is  appreciated  and  profited  by, 


24 


and  we  shall  see  the  divine  results  in  a 
a year  or  two.  And  yet  sometimes,  like 
the  dear  old  Baron  in  the  Bed  Lamp,  c I 
wonder  ? ’ 

For  myself,  public  libraries  possess  a 
special  horror,  as  of  lonely  wastes  and 
dragon-haunted  fens.  The  stillness  and 
the  heavy  air,  the  feeling  of  restriction  and 
surveillance,  the  mute  presence  of  these 
other  readers,  ‘ all  silent  and  all  damned,  ’ 
combine  to  set  up  a nervous  irritation  fatal 
to  quiet  study.  Had  I to  choose,  I 
would  prefer  the  windy  street.  And  pos- 
sibly others  have  found  that  the  removal 
of  checks  and  obstacles  makes  the  path 
which  leads  to  the  divine  mountain-tops 
less  tempting,  now  that  it  is  less  rugged. 
So  full  of  human  nature  are  we  all — still- 
despite  the  Radical  missionaries  that  la- 
bour in  the  vineyard.  Before  the  Nation- 
al Gallery  was  extended  and  rearranged, 


25 


there  was  a little  St  Catherine  by  Pintu- 
ricchio  that  possessed  my  undivided  affec- 
tions. In  those  days  she  hung  near  the 
floor,  so  that  those  who  would  worship 
must  grovel ; and  little  I grudged  it. 
Whenever  I found  myself  near  Trafalgar 
Square  with  five  minutes  to  spare  I used 
to  turn  in  and  sit  on  the  floor  before  the 
object  of  my  love,  till  gently  but  firmly 
replaced  on  my  legs  by  the  attendant. 
She  hangs  on  the  line  now,  in  the  grand  new 
room  ; but  I never  go  to  see  her.  Some- 
how she  is  not  my  St.  Catherine  of  .old. 
Doubtless  Free  Libraries  affect  many  stu- 
dents in  the  same  way  : on  the  same  prin- 
ciple as  that  now  generally  accepted — that 
it  is  the  restrictions  placed  on  vice  by  our 
social  code  which  makes  its  pursuit  so  pe- 
culiarly agreeable. 

But  even  when  the  element  of  human 
nature  has  been  fully  allowed  for,  it  re- 


26 


mains  a question  whether  the  type  of 
mind  that  a generation  or  two  of  Free  Li- 

O 

braries  will  evolve  is  or  is  not  the  one 
that  the  world  most  desiderates ; and 
whether  the  spare  reading  and  consequent 
fertile  thinking  necessitated  by  the  old,  or 
gas-] amp,  style  is  not  productive  of  sound- 
er results.  The  cloyed  and  congested 
mind  resulting  from  the  free  run  of  these 
grocers’  shops  to  omnivorous  appetites 
(and  all  young  readers  are  omnivorous) 
bids  fair  to  produce  a race  of  literary  res- 
urrection-men : a result  from  which  we 
may  well  pray  to  be  spared.  Of  all  forms 
of  lettered  effusiveness  that  which  exploits 
the  original  work  of  others  and  professes 
to  supply  us  with  right  opinions  there- 
anent  is  the  least  wanted.  And  whether 
he  take  to  literary  expression  by  pen  or 
.only  wag  the  tongue  of  him,  the  grocer’s 
boy  of  letters  is  sure  to  prove  a prodigious 


2 7 


bore.  The  Free  Library,  if  it  be  fulfilling 
the  programme  of  its  advocates,  is  breed- 
ing such  as  he  by  scores. 

But  after  all  there  is  balm  in  Gilead; 
and  much  joy  and  consolation  may  be 
drawn  from  the  sorrowful  official  reports, 
by  which  it  would  appear  that  the  patrons 
of  these  libraries  are  confining  their  readi  ng 
with  a charming  unanimity,  exclusively  to 
novels.  And  indeed  they  cannot  do  better; 
there  is  no  more  blessed  thing  on  earth 
than  a good  novel,  not  the  least  merit  of 
which  is  that  it  induces  a state  of  passive, 
unconscious  enjoyment,  and  never  frenzies 
the  reader  to  go  out  and  put  the  world 
right.  Next  to  fairy  tales — the  original 
world-fiction — our  modern  novels  may  be 
ranked  as  our  most  precious  possessions  ; 
and  so  it  has  come  to  pass  that  I shall  now 
cheerfully  pay  my  five  shillings,  or  ten 
shillings,  or  whatever  it  may  shortly  be. 


28 


in  the  pound  towards  the  Free  Library: 
convinced  at  last  that  the  money  is  not 
wasted  in  training  exponents  of  the  sub- 
jectivity of  this  writer  and  the  objectivity 
of  that,  nor  in  developing  fresh  imitators 
of  dead  discredited  styles,  but  is  righteous- 
ly devoted  to  the  support  of  wholesome, 
honest,  unpretending  novel-reading. 


29 


A DOMESTIC  EVENT 


Back  from  a tedious  holiday 
He  comes,  and — Duty  first— he  looks 
Around  for  his  familiar  books  ; 

But  all  the  room’s  in  disarray  ! 

He  searches;  what’s  the  matter,  eh? 

He  hunts  in  most  unheard  of  nooks. 
‘Were  robbers  here,  or  were  they  cooks, 
Who  seized,  who  stole  my  Books  away? 
Notone!  What  wind  has  blown  about, 
What  tempest  can  have  tossed  them  out, 
And  cleared  the  shelves  that  used  to  hold 
them  ?’ 

No  cook,  no  thief,  no  tempest  came. 

His  lady  wife  ’tis  she’s  to  blame 
Who  carried  off  the  Books  — and  sold 
them  ! 

— F.  Fertiault , J r.  Andrew  Lang. 


